


Moments

by PeaceHeather



Series: Odin's Son, Tyr's Son [3]
Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, Short Chapters, Slice of Life, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-10 13:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6987841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeaceHeather/pseuds/PeaceHeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets and scenes from Loki's life growing up with Tyr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyr learned many things about his foster son as the years flew by, becoming decades and then centuries, but several things stood out.
> 
> One, Loki was a ridiculously powerful mage, and incredibly intelligent besides. His power and the careless ease with which he handled it sent Mimir to Tyr's study more than once, looking for strong drink.

Tyr learned many things about his foster son as the years flew by, becoming decades and then centuries, but several things stood out.

One, Loki was a ridiculously powerful mage, and incredibly intelligent besides. His power and the careless ease with which he handled it sent Mimir to Tyr's study more than once, looking for strong drink.

* * *

"Your son," said Mimir, one night in Tyr's study. Their meeting together by the fire for strong drink and conversation had become something of a tradition, over the years. The older man shook his head, filling his glass with fine Alfheim brandy. "Your son."

"Has he done something?"

"Has he done something." Mimir chuckled, but there was little humor in it, and Tyr frowned at the sound of it. "When has he not?"

"I would invite you to speak plainly, Seidmadr," said Tyr.

Mimir looked up then, and caught the expression on the general's face. "Ah. My apologies. No. He's not in any trouble and has done nothing I would disapprove of."

"And yet, you seem troubled," Tyr pressed.

"It is only the boy's intellect, and the places it takes him," Mimir replied. "I have spoken of it to you before."

"You've said he's very smart, yes," said the general, admiring the glow of firelight through his glass; "but I knew that when I adopted him."

"With all respect, I daresay you had no way of knowing that Loki has the kind of mind seen only rarely throughout all Yggdrasil." Mimir arched an eyebrow at him.

"Hm. Perhaps." The corner of Tyr's mouth quirked up in amusement. "Although you've since made sure I knew it, nearly every time we meet." Mimir chuckled into his glass. "Come, what has the boy done this time?"

Mimir leaned back into his seat with a sigh. "We were discussing magical theory today, and he asked a question whose answer I assumed he would not be ready for." He shook his head and lifted his glass. "One of these days I shall learn better."

* * *

The birds were chirping and swooping overhead as the two seidmenn, master and student, strolled the path toward the kitchen gardens. It was a beautiful day, yet the location served to grant them a fair degree of privacy.

"Illusion magic is easy enough to master, Loki, yes," Mimir was saying, "but controlling multiple illusions…" He shook his head. "You are young yet. Give it time."

"But why?" Loki asked the question in that particular way he had, the one that suggested he thought his teachers were being more condescending than he really deserved. He gestured, and before Mimir's eyes, three other identical copies of Loki appeared.

They moved independently of one another, one smiling at him, another strolling closer to a flowering patch of herbs and bending as if to smell them. The third tilted its head at Mimir quizzically. "You've said before that illusion is merely the bending of light."

The smiling one added, "And light in its various forms is the most cooperative element of them all."

Mimir blinked, but managed to school his expression. It was necessary more often than not, with this particular student. "I see," he said. "It is in general not the bending of light which is difficult, but the division of awareness that you must undertake in order to pay equal attention to all of the copies."

The copy nearest the herb patch straightened up, wrinkling its nose. "That sounds like the Alfheim hypothesis, is it not, seidmadr?"

"Indeed. I see you have done your reading on the topic."

The smiling copy smiled wider. "I read that over a century ago, seidmadr."

"Mm. And what is your opinion, then?"

The Loki nearest Mimir, the real one, shrugged. "The Alfheim hypothesis seems… _adequate,_ I suppose? An acceptable way to manage the challenge. But it just felt so complicated, to me, to leave all these empty illusions with no ability to act without the magic-user's direct attention."

"Well, yes, that is rather the point—"

"But why do that, when Mordenkainen's Theory of Disjunction makes it so much simpler?" Another of the copies gestured—at least, Mimir thought it was a copy—and four more Lokis sprang into existence. "The Alfheim hypothesis suggests that there is an upper limit to how many copies can be created and controlled by a magic-user, and," the Loki frowned, "strongly implies that the number is an indicator of the seidmadr's own intelligence. But if you apply the Theory of Disjunction…" Four more copies appeared, and the space began to appear a little crowded. Some of the images remained sitting on the nearby bench or leaning against the tree under which Mimir stood, while others began to meander up the path toward the kitchens, or down it toward the stable entrance.

"Are you implying that you've given each of these copies a nugget of your own awareness?" asked Mimir, resisting the urge to clutch at his chest in shock.

"Well, yes," said the Loki nearest him.

"In a way," said one on the bench.

"We're all me," finished a copy that appeared to be trying to hoist itself up onto the lowest tree limb.

"We can go where we're told, and learn things for our original Loki…" said one standing behind Mimir.

"…and come back," said another, jogging up to join them. "For example, the meal tonight will include that fish and lemon dish that you like so much."

Mimir blinked, at a loss for words for a bare second; then he narrowed his eyes. "And was that fish on the menu before you went to the kitchens?" he asked.

Several of the Lokis laughed in a chorus. "It _might_ have been," said the one in front of him.

Mimir poked him in the chest, and watched with quiet amazement as he dissolved into sparks. He'd moved independently, while Mimir held a conversation with the real Loki, and obtained information for him. A combination of illusion-copy and scry, made possible by a division of consciousness…

"Who taught you this?" he asked, turning back around. The Lokis still nearby were looking at him impishly, and he just _knew_ that they'd all switched places to try and make him guess which one was the flesh-and-blood original.

"No one," said a few of the copies, before one continued, "It just seemed to make sense after we read Mordenkainen."

Meaning the boy had had no notion that it _couldn't be done_ , and had therefore assumed it not only possible but simple to achieve.

"But do you not need to regulate carefully how far your consciousness is divided?" asked Mimir.

A few of the copies shook their heads, while others shrugged or looked thoughtful. "Not really. After all, pure consciousness is pure unity, regardless of the separation into various vessels."

"That is a spiritual teaching—"

"But it applies," insisted Loki. The sentence came at him in fragments from too many directions to follow. "What is considered spiritual—"

"—by non-magical beings—"

"—is often a matter of practicality—"

"—for wielders of seidr."

"Have we not seen—"

"—the volur—"

"—who turn into—"

"—whole flocks of birds—

"—in order to watch—"

"—over the realm?"

Mimir took a moment to make certain he'd heard everything correctly, then blinked. "That is a matter of shapeshifting," he said, "and quite an advanced one, since the awareness is divided so."

"But that's just it!" said a chorus of Lokis; several threw their hands into the air in frustration. "We're not divided at all."

Mordenkainen's Theory of Disjunction; Mimir thought quickly. "Calm yourself, then; your barriers that create the _effect_ of a division of consciousness are beginning to blur. You can tell by the way several of your copies are acting in concert now." _As they should,_ thought Mimir, but this was a revolutionary breakthrough in magical thought and he did not wish to distract his student from what he had to say.

"Oh, of course."

With a quick glance to the sky and then the ground, Mimir smirked in satisfaction, and walked up to the real Loki, who had indeed taken a few steps up the path to sit on the bench next to some of his other copies. With a quick poke to his chest and a light jolt of seidr, all the other copies vanished in a shower of sparks, leaving his student blinking and shaking his head as if he'd just been struck. "Next time, consider a way to give your copies shadows, and you will be harder to locate."

"Yes, seidmadr." Loki pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted his eyes shut. "Did you have to give me a headache?"

"You permitted your awareness to divide into several vessels, and were unprepared to have them all snap back into unity," said Mimir. "Another… hmm, let us not call it a flaw, but perhaps a wrinkle to smooth over as you perfect this method."

"Yes, seidmadr."

* * *

Mimir sighed, downing the last of his brandy in one swallow. "I am uncertain how best to explain it," he said to Ty. "Instead of creating illusions, and keeping track of them all carefully, he is creating illusory  _vessels_ , and placing a bit of his mind inside each one. They are less like pictures and more like constructs—which are another ridiculously complicated bit of magic that should be impossible for him at this age," he added, and Tyr raised an eyebrow. "The copies can think, to a limited degree, or follow instructions, and they most certainly can convey messages or gather information. Then when he recalls the illusion, the little nugget of his consciousness returns, and he has the information as if he had gone to seek it out himself."

"And the headache?"

"I startled him, and they all dispelled at once, returning all those nuggets back into his mind, where he had to reintegrate them rather suddenly. I suspect with practice he will learn a way around that, as well."

"Interesting," said Tyr. "I wonder if he has stopped to consider all the potential uses for such things. Or variations on them."

"Heh. Of that, I have no doubt."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyr learned many things about his foster son as the years flew by, becoming decades and then centuries, but several things stood out…
> 
> Two, Loki was young yet when Tyr first adopted him, and despite his strength and intelligence, he did not always think ahead to the consequences of his actions.

 

"The boy's insatiably curious," Mimir said one night. "Insatiably. It doesn't matter the discipline, if it's something he's never heard of before, no matter how trivial, he _has_ to know more about it."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," said Tyr, pushing the bottle closer to the older man's cup.

"No, no. Not at all. Part of it is his youth, and after the way Odin mistreated him, seeing an inquisitive nature surfacing is to me a sign that he is recovering. It's all to the good. And of course, as a seidmadr, that inquisitiveness is likely never to go away." He smiled, a little self-deprecatingly, as he filled his cup with liquor.

"Then what is the problem?"

"I had forgotten just how _exhausting_ such curiosity could be to try and satisfy," said Mimir. "By the stars, I may be the most qualified person to teach him, and even I can barely keep up some days. It doesn't help that he has a brilliant intellect. That, I can keep up with, but not many would be able to."

"Modest of you," said Tyr, amused.

"But accurate," Mimir replied with a shrug. "My point is not to boast. It is to say that it's easy to see why he resorted to teaching himself, while he was still living with Odin. With a mind like his, he couldn't not."

"Mm. He excels in all his other studies as well," said Tyr. "Even his warrior training. He's not particularly warlike, but even so, now that we've gotten him away from that bastard Kaetilfast, he's improving steadily in his weapons work and other combat skills."

"Do I remember correctly, that he taught himself your hunting signals and turned them into a language?"

"Heh. Indeed. He and Thor used to get up to mischief in the palace, as I recall the tale. They would sneak about and use the signals to pass secret messages in their classes."

Mimir shook his head. "Stars only know what he and his new friend will get up to down in the bakers' district, with that kind of skill at their disposal."

The bakers' district… Tyr's eyebrow began to climb. The area was notorious as a den of thieves, though its reputation was generally worse than the reality. The people of the bakers' district were not wealthy, to be sure, but they were by and large decent, honorable people. Still, Tyr suspected that his son's new friend might be providing him an education in areas a bit outside the socially accepted curriculum.

* * *

"Fandral, son of Folkmarr, my lord," said Hoenir one day. Tyr frowned as the boy came in.

"Are you looking for Loki?" The last Tyr had heard, his son was going down into the town to see his friend, and the two of them were going to spend the day together after their classes let out.

"Not… not exactly, weaponsmaster," said Fandral. The boy looked rather like he was hoping the earth would open up and swallow him. "He sent me to come find you."

Tyr stood, his frown deepening. "Is something wrong?"

"Not exactly."

Tyr stopped in his tracks and leveled the boy with a look. Fandral gulped and looked away.

"Tell me what has happened to my son."

"It's nothing serious!" Fandral said quickly. "He's in the stables, but… he didn't want anyone but you to see him."

"Is he injured?"

"No, weaponsmaster, not at all. I swear it."

They found Loki hiding in Sleipnir's stall, standing in the corner with his hands behind his back and his face bright red. The scowl he wore looked to be covering embarrassment with a show of anger.

"My son?"

"Could you find the farrier's tools, please, Father," Loki said evenly.

Tyr looked his son up and down, eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Just… could you _please_ find them. And perhaps bring the heavy pair of cutters."

"Loki, what are you hiding behind your back?"

"I'm not."

"Loki."

With a deeply put-upon sigh, the boy turned around, revealing his hands cuffed together by a heavy pair of manacles of the sort the city and palace guard carried.

Tyr's eyebrow climbed his forehead. He said nothing, waiting for Loki to turn back around, and let his expression do the talking.

"I didn't _do_ anything!" were the first words out of his son's mouth.

Tyr's other eyebrow joined the first.

"I didn't! What, do you think I could have fled the guards and run all the way up the hill to Vingólf with my hands stuck like this? I _walked_."

"It's true, weaponsmaster," said Fandral. "He… we have a… that is to say…"

"If you were not arrested by the guard, one is left to wonder how you _obtained_ a set of manacles," observed Tyr. "And what you are doing in them, of course."

Fandral's face turned a little red. "I, uh, I live in the _baker's district_ , weaponsmaster," he said carefully. He searched Tyr's face as if he'd been speaking in code, and wanted to be sure he was understood.

The baker's district. Tyr couldn't help but recall the conversation he and Mimir had had, some weeks prior. "I see," he said. "And you… borrowed these from a friend, I take it?"

Fandral and Loki shared a look. Fandral chewed his lip; Loki nodded minutely. "Something like that, weaponsmaster."

"Something like Loki and you picking up extra lessons outside of school?"

Loki sighed and shifted, and Tyr could hear the faint clink as the chains on his cuffs moved. "It was something Seidmadr Mimir said," he began. Every inch of him showed his deep reluctance to go on, but as Tyr waited, he finally did. "He said… he'd said that to stop a seidmadr, whether it was someone who was committing crimes, or-or on the battlefield, the manacles the guards use would be enchanted, to stop the person from working any magic. And G—Fandral and I were talking with someone who suggested that the manacles didn't need seidr to escape them. They offered to teach me."

"So you just let them lock you in and then leave you like this?"

"No, sir! They showed me several times how to do it before they would even let me put the shackles on. And then I practiced it with the cuff just on one wrist, then just on the other, so I could do it with both hands. But I could still see what I was doing, and—this person we were talking to said that you wouldn't _really_ be good at it until you could do it behind your back. Then they had to leave but they let us keep these to practice with…"

"And then you got overconfident, I take it?" asked the general.

A bit of a blush lit Loki's cheeks. He didn't say anything, just huffed and looked away.

"And then he dropped the lock pick," muttered Fandral.

"And then _you_ kicked it down the sewer drain," retorted Loki.

"That was an accident!"

Tyr bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the pair of them. "Come with me."

"Father?" "Weaponsmaster?"

"You heard me. We're going to my study."

"You're not… you aren't going to take these off of him?" asked Fandral, moving closer to his friend.

"No need," said Tyr. "Loki just needs a little more time with them, and a bit of patience, and a lock pick that will not get lost when he needs it most."

"But people will see!" Loki hissed the words, as if there were eavesdroppers just around the corner.

"If they do, they will not question," said Tyr. "Not if I am with you."

Loki gulped.

"Walk in between us," suggested Fandral quickly. He peeled off his cloak and draped it across Loki's shoulders, while the other boy glared. "We'll walk close together and no one will be able to tell."

"Yes they _will_ ," Loki groused.

"Perhaps next time you will be more careful not to drop the pick," said Tyr mildly, and both boys turned to stare at him incredulously.

" _That's_ what you're making into a lesson," said Loki, frankly disbelieving. "Not 'stay out of the baker's district', not 'don't learn to pick locks', but _'don't drop the lock pick'_?"

Tyr smiled. And waited.

"…yes, Father."

* * *

"I am curious," Tyr said later that evening. Fandral had gone home only a little while before, and now the general and his son were midway through their second game of tafl, their empty dishes on a table beside them. Tyr nodded toward the opened shackles and lock pick that rested near Loki's plate, where he'd been playing with them off and on ever since winning his way free the first time.

"You want to know what possessed me to learn such a thing?" Loki guessed, moving his piece and capturing another of Tyr's.

"It is a fair question for a father to ask, you must admit," said the general.

Loki was quiet for a moment. "You may think it is foolish," he said finally.

"And you may remember that I prefer to be the one to decide such things for myself."

"I know, Father, yes," replied Loki with a rueful smile. "It's just…" He blinked rapidly, resting his hands on the edge of the board. "When Seidmadr Mimir started talking about the various ways to incapacitate or capture mages… all I could think about—all I could think about was that Odin had already had my lips sewn shut, and that…" The boy would not look up at Tyr. "I never want to be that helpless again. I—I can't."

Tyr thought for a moment, and when Loki looked up, he nodded solemnly. While the boy studied his face, Tyr moved his piece on the tafl board, and said nothing.

* * *

Eight days later, a woman known as Geirny the Thief came to Vingólf, and began teaching Loki everything she knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote enough words to double the length of this chapter, and then realized that they didn't quite fit here after all. But they were good words, so I'm posting them as a related ficlet titled "The Job Interview".
> 
> So... happy birthday to me, have _two_ posts. (My present to myself will be your reviews, because you are all awesome and spoil me like you wouldn't believe.)


	3. Mishaps, Example 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyr learned many things about his foster son as the years flew by, becoming decades and then centuries, but several things stood out…
> 
> Three, for all his natural talent, Loki nevertheless had relatively little training in how to control and wield all that seidr, which meant that the results of his spells and workings could sometimes be… unpredictable. And that was not even factoring in the times when he used it deliberately, for some mischief or other.

 

"Has anybody seen Loki?" Tyr was in the dining hall with Mimir and a few other members of the household; the food was on the table, but the boy was nowhere to be seen.

"Not since I dismissed him from his lessons this afternoon," said the seidmadr. "He had mentioned wanting to practice protective wards, though."

"You think it likely he became distracted?" asked Tyr.

"When he can be induced to concentrate, his focus is formidable," Mimir replied. "He would mostly likely be in his chambers if I had to guess."

"You cannot simply follow his seidr, as you've done before?"

"It is a bit more effort than needed for something that isn't an emergency," said Mimir, with a raised eyebrow. "And in any case, if he is practicing wards, there is a possibility I would not be able to see him hiding behind them anyway."

Tyr accepted that with a shrug and a gesture to one of the servants, sending him to fetch the boy as they began their meal. He had gotten no more than halfway through his soup, however, when the servant returned—alone, and with a troubled look on his face.

"My lord?" He approached with caution in his every step, wringing his hands together, and Tyr frowned.

"He wasn't in his chambers?"

"I—my lord, young Master Loki's chambers… they weren't _there_."

Mimir and Tyr looked at each other, then rose to their feet simultaneously.

They arrived quickly at the upstairs corridor that opened onto what had once been the king's and queen's separate apartments, back when Vingólf had been the royal palace. Zisa had never had opportunity to live in the queen's chambers, dying long before Tyr had made general, but her portrait hung in what would have been her receiving room. They were Loki's chambers now… but the door to the rooms was absent. The wall of the corridor was as smooth as if no door had ever existed there.

Tyr knew where it ought to have been, however, and a quick glance at the floor showed the marks that countless feet had worn into the stones, over the centuries that Vingólf had stood. He stepped up to the correct spot and reached out, only to feel a sharp jolt run up his arm as he touched the stone where the door should have been. He jerked away, biting back a shout as he shook the pain out of his hand.

"Sorry!" They heard Loki's voice, faintly, from the other side of the wall.

"My son?" Tyr stepped closer, careful not to touch this time. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine!" he called. "I'm just stuck."

Stuck. Tyr looked over his shoulder at Mimir, whose eyebrows looked like they were ready to climb off his forehead and take flight. "Stuck how?"

There was a pause, then Loki answered. "I was practicing wards. Huzzah, they work! Only perhaps a little too well."

"Loki, there isn't even a door here," said Tyr.

"Truly?" The boy actually sounded excited about this revelation. "That's wonderful!"

"Loki!"

"Sorry!"

Shuffling at the end of the hall alerted Tyr to the arrival of several of the house staff, no doubt drawn to all the shouting. With a roll of his eyes, he waved them off, but most of them only pretended to disperse by moving a few paces back before pausing to listen some more.

Mimir had stepped forward in the meantime, and was examining the wall closely with senses that Tyr probably did not even possess. He held out a hand, careful not to actually touch the wall either. "The camouflage is a nice touch," he said loudly, "but perhaps counterproductive in a locale where everyone knows a door ought to exist."

"I know that," called Loki, "but I was practicing all the different types."

"Yes, you certainly were," muttered Mimir, too low for the boy to hear. Louder, he went on, "And then what happened?"

What followed was a nearly incomprehensible discussion between a shouting Mimir and a barely audible Loki, with vocabulary Tyr had never heard before in all his life; an esoteric discussion that, from what little Tyr was able to decipher, amounted to Mimir saying that Loki had started each ward without getting rid of the previous, and kept going, and now they were all tangled together, with Loki alternately arguing, agreeing, and apologizing in roughly equal measure.

While this was going on, one of the servants braved the shouting to approach Tyr. "My lord? Is all well?"

"It seems so," he replied quietly. "One or two of you may remain if you wish, in case Seidmadr Mimir needs you. The rest of you may be dismissed to your evening meal, or your other duties."

"Yes, my lord," said the servant.

None of them left. If anything, the crowd at the end of the hallway had grown larger in the past few minutes. Ah, well, at least life in the household was entertaining.

Tyr returned his attention to the two seidmenn. "If it would not take both of us to unravel this, I would leave you to manage it yourself," Mimir was saying, "and let it serve as a lesson to you to keep better track of the threads you weave. As it is, it will take one person from each side of the wall, passing the threads back and forth through the mess you've created, before we'll be able to free you."

"Yes, seidmadr," Tyr heard Loki say.

Mimir sighed, and turned to catch Tyr's eye. "You may as well return to your meal, General," he said. "This may take a while."

"Will the two of you be all right?"

"Aye, this will be time-consuming and strenuous, but not truly complicated or dangerous." Amusement crept into his expression. "Think of it as untangling a skein of yarn that the cats have gotten into. It will mostly require patience, and we'll probably be in a foul temper once we're done, but no one is likely to come to actual harm."

"Heh."

And indeed, three hours later, Loki and Mimir were both scowling as they came down to the kitchens, where Tyr happened to be discussing expenses with Olief, and began foraging through the food stores like they were dying of starvation. The boy was rubbing at his forehead as if he'd gotten a headache.

"Everyone all right?"

"Fine," was all Loki said.

"We are seidmenn who have not had dinner, and have used our powers extensively," said Mimir. "Your son is in an especially foul mood because the wards rebounded on him—twice—and they did that why?"

"I _know_ , Seidmadr," said Loki, in what was just short of a growl.

"Do not take that tone with me, I know full well that I've taught you about tying off the ends of your spells better than you did. You got impatient, and sloppy, and that sloppiness came back to bite you."

"A rebound." Olief spoke up, pushing mugs of heated milk with honey their way. Both seidmenn fell on the drinks and began draining them greedily. "Sounds unpleasant."

"Yes, well, imagine being struck between the eyes with one of your ladles," muttered Loki. "Right _here._ " He rubbed at the spot on his own forehead a moment more, then looked up. "I—that wasn't a threat, in case you are wondering."

"I should hope not," laughed Olief, "or you'd get one of my ladles between _your_ eyes, and I'd chase you out before you could finish your supper!" He eyed the worktable, where Mimir had set enough bread, cheese, and apples for five men and was steadily working his way through them himself. Without another word, the cook turned to the pantries and began pulling out leftover roasts and a few vegetables, which he began chopping to toss into the ever-present stew pot.

Tyr could only watch as the two of them virtually demolished Olief's kitchen, and wonder where on earth all the food _went._


	4. Mishaps, Example 2

 

Tyr was an early riser; always had been, thanks to his military career, but while he thought nothing of getting up before the sun to begin attending to each day's duties, he generally tried to let Loki sleep in a bit later, as his schedule permitted. Even so, they usually managed to share breakfast together, before Tyr had to get to work. So it was unusual for his spot at the table to be empty today.

"Has anybody seen Loki?" he asked Astrid as she placed full pitchers on the table.

"Not yet, my lord," she said. "Perhaps he is yet abed?"

"He has weapons training today," Tyr mused. "I hope he hasn't overslept."

"Shall I go check on him, my lord?"

"No need. We are both for the training grounds today, and I'd meant to travel with him. I shall wake him myself."

* * *

 

"Loki?" Tyr rapped on the door to his son's chambers, then poked his head into the receiving room. "Loki, are you here?"

"Yes, Father," came the reply from the next room, but something in the boy's voice seemed off. There was a bit of added rasp; was he ill? None of the servants had mentioned it.

"You'll be late to weapons training if you don't hurry." He crossed to the door to Loki's study, but it wouldn't open. A warning tingle went up his arm when he tried a second time. "Why is your door warded?"

"Don't come in!"

"It would seem I can't," said Tyr mildly. "Will you answer the question?"

"It's nothing."

"Loki."

"…I don't want anyone to see me," said the boy.

Tyr folded his arms. "Including your weapons instructors?"

"I'm not going today, Father." Loki's voice had the same careful, even tone he'd used once in the stables, many years ago.

The general frowned. "I know they are not your favorite lessons," he said, "but that is no reason to shirk them."

"I'm not _shirking!_ I just… don't want to go today."

"Because?"

"…Father, I—I can't say."

" _Because?_ "

There was an audible sigh from the other side of the door, then Tyr heard the lock click and saw the flare of seidr being dispelled. "Because I can't let anyone see me like this! All right?"

Tyr blinked at his son. At least, he assumed this creature was his son. "Loki?"

He was dressed in Loki's morning robe, and stood roughly the same height as Tyr was used to seeing, but there the similarities began to diverge. Loki's head was more elongated than a person's should be, suggesting the beginnings of a muzzle with his flattened, smaller nose and the overall shape of his jaw. When the boy/creature ducked Tyr's stare, the general saw large, pointed ears like a cat's, drooping in what Tyr would have called abject misery in a normal animal.

"You don't even recognize me," he said, and that was Loki's voice, with the added rasp Tyr had heard earlier.

"Not so. I admit to being a bit surprised, though," said Tyr.

The creature—his son—looked back up at the general through his lashes, and Tyr saw that his eyes had gained slit pupils and reflected the light. They were the same green color they had always been, if perhaps a little more intense. "That's all you're going to say?" One of Loki's ears twitched forward, and Tyr couldn't help but smile.

"Well, I'll also be sure to remember this for next time, so that I do recognize you." The other ear perked up as well, and the hem of Loki's robe twitched. Was that—? Tilting his head for a better view, yes, in fact, Tyr did see the end of a tail peeking out from under the robe. At least that explained why the boy had not gotten dressed properly before now. "How in all the realms did this happen?"

"I was practicing shape shifting yesterday," Loki answered. "Seidmadr Mimir said that a good percentage of jotnar have the ability to take at least one other form, and that, because of my seidr, I would probably have more than one."

Tyr took that in with a nod. "You weren't sure if you could take this form, were you?"

"It isn't that, Father." He glanced away, ears twitching nervously. "I… I didn't do it deliberately. I went to bed thinking about shape shifting, and woke up like this."

Tyr's eyebrows shot up. Working seidr in his sleep, again. It was supposed to be impossible, according to Mimir, but the boy had done it more than once over the passing decades. "Are you in any pain?"

Loki smiled wanly, and Tyr caught the glimpse of pointed fangs. "Only when I sit on my tail. Or when I accidentally bit my tongue a few minutes ago."

"I suppose that's a relief." Tyr ran his hand through his hair. "I presume you are unable to change back."

"I'm working on it," Loki replied. He held up a hand that looked entirely normal, except for the fine coat of black-velvet fur that covered the back. "I was able to get rid of the claws pretty easily. I just need more time to take care of the rest."

"Should I speak to Seidmadr Mimir and have him come assist?"

"He can't." Loki shrugged, but the way he hugged himself and glanced away from Tyr was a bit more telling. "It's not entirely seidr. Shape shifting is… somewhat biological."

"Even so," said Tyr, "he is a full-blooded jotun. Perhaps he will have more information for you to consider."

Loki hunched his shoulders up, still not quite looking at Tyr. "I suppose. I just hope he won't kill me for doing something so stupid."

"It was an accident, wasn't it? I am sure Mimir will understand."

"Yes, Father."

Tyr risked putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. It felt the same as it always had, if perhaps a bit more angular across the shoulder blade. "Is there anything else you need, my son? Anything I might be able to assist with?"

"Not really," said Loki, visibly relaxing as he saw that Tyr was not going to grow angry with him. He smiled again, showing a bit more fang this time. "Although I must confess, I have the strangest craving right now for raw meat. Or fish." His slit pupils actually dilated a bit as he spoke. "Ooh. Raw _salmon_."

Tyr could no longer resist the urge to rub his son's head, and fondle his velvet ears as they both laughed, and the boy's tail flicked happily.

"Do I recall correctly, that you said your mother had plans to visit today?" he asked.

Loki's… fur… actually began to stand on end. "I… may have to ask Mother to come at another time."

"I am uncertain she would accept any excuses," Tyr said. "We could tell her you are indisposed, but it would not be the entire truth. And you have not seen her in many months."

"But I cannot let her see me like _this_!" Loki stepped back, clutching at the front of his robe when it threatened to gap open. "She will think I am some sort of freak!"

"She will think that you have been practicing your seidr-craft, which you have. Did you not say she was your first instructor?"

"In, in manipulating light and simple displacements, not anything of _this_ magnitude."

"Loki." The boy's ears twitched again, his tail swishing from side to side in agitation. "Your mother loves you, and so long as you are not harmed, I think she will not mind your appearance."

* * *

 

Indeed, the queen did not mind at all when she arrived later that afternoon. Loki had been working diligently, and was almost back to his usual appearance apart from the ears and tail.

"Everything else was soft tissue, or hair and claws, or an alteration rather than an addition, so they were relatively malleable," he was complaining. "But bone and cartilage are _stubborn."_

"Well, I think you look adorable," said Frigga, while Hoenir poured the tea for them.

"Mother." Loki could control his facial expressions, but he'd clearly never had cause to monitor the movement of his own ears before, for they gave away his every mood throughout the day. "'Adorable' is for _infants_."

"And you will always be _my_ baby, dear one," she said, and Tyr chuckled as Loki huffed and crossed his arms. "Are they soft?"

"I—beg pardon?"

"Your ears, darling," said Frigga. "I confess I am finding it difficult to resist finding out."

Tyr watched, barely managing to hide his amusement as Loki huffed some more, and glared, and put on a good show of reluctance, before leaning forward in his seat and allowing his mother to stroke his head.

And if he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, well, Tyr certainly wasn't going to say anything to anyone about it.

* * *

 

Loki missed not only his weapons training, but all his other lessons as he worked to regain his proper form (and of course, even an unofficial visit from the Queen of Asgard took precedence over such things). He succeeded before the day was out, finishing just in time for a game of tafl and a private meal with his mother, Tyr, and Mimir. (The salmon was cooked.)

Since he'd missed weapons training, Tyr made him attend the next day to catch up… but if his reflexes and speed were just a bit better that day than they'd ever been before, well, Tyr wasn't going to say anything about that, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. Yes, I did give you Neko!Loki. It had to be done, and I regret nothing.


	5. Mishaps, Example 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been wanting to write this chapter since nearly the beginning of _Grievance_. I hope you like it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Over the decades, although Vingólf had never experienced them before, the residents eventually got used to the occasional miniature earthquake on the palace grounds, accepting that they were a result of Loki's excess magic and his occasional loss of control over it. The tremors were never severe enough to cause damage, although there was the rare, random injury thanks to a spooked horse or a shifting ladder. Once, the kitchen complained about an entire jar of spices tipping over and falling into that evening's main dish; still, in general, there was never any harm done.

Thus, Tyr did not think anything of it when the ground began to shake, while he was riding up the hill back to the old dirt pile after a day spent at the training grounds. Even his horse no longer reacted beyond a snort and a shake of his head. If any thought entered the general's head at all, it was something along the lines of noting that it had been a while since the last tremor.

The quake ended by the time Tyr had passed through the entrance tunnel to the courtyard, and the general thought nothing more of it as he called for a groom and dismounted.

He was understandably less calm, then, when he found himself ducking flying shards of glass in the courtyard as every window in the entire palace _shattered_ and blew outward.

There were cries of shock and fright from inside the buildings, and the squeal of horses in the nearby stable, but looking around him, Tyr did not see anyone injured. In fact, looking at the ground, the glass had landed in a perfect circle around him and his horse, not coming close enough to touch either of them.

"Has anybody seen Loki?" Tyr called.

"Not out here," came the response. Tyr looked up to see the chief groom across th courtyard. Torfi came jogging up as Tyr struggled to get the beast under control, followed by two junior grooms who were sweeping glass off the pathway to the stables.

"It'll be the young master for sure," he said when he was close enough. He grabbed the reins and immediately went to work settling Tyr's horse. "I'll take this one."

"Anyone hurt?" asked Tyr.

"Not among my people," Torfi replied, and Tyr was off like a shot for the main hall.

Hoenir was waiting for him just inside the doorway. "Every single window, my lord," he said, wringing his hands. "But as far as we can tell, the glass all went outward. No one inside got so much as a scratch."

"That is good to know," said Tyr. "Has Mimir returned from Vanaheim yet?"

"He isn't due until tomorrow."

Loki had promised in front of them both to work no seidr while his teacher was gone. Tyr would be angry if he had broken his word, but the earthquakes had always been involuntary.

"Has anyone seen Loki?" he asked, beginning to climb the stairs up to their private floor.

"He was visiting with one of his companions from the capital," said Hoenir. "That maiden he's taken a fancy to."

Tyr stopped in his tracks. "Sigyn?"

"Just so, my lord."

Tyr blinked. The two of them had been friends for centuries now, since before the general had adopted the boy. Loki had kept a portrait of her hidden among his papers, while he still lived in the palace.

The general jogged up to the private wing and opened Loki's door without knocking. "My son?" The receiving room was empty, but heard a flurry of motion from behind Loki's bedroom door… along with a distinctly feminine, if muffled, yelp of surprise. "Loki?"

There was a very long pause.

"…In here, Father," Loki called.

Tyr opened the door with perhaps more trepidation than the situation warranted.

Loki was sitting up in bed, shirtless, with tangled sheets pulled up to his waist. The blankets were in a jumble, and there was a suspicious lump underneath them, partially hidden beside Loki's bent legs. The boy's skin was flushed and damp, his hair a mess, but his expression was carefully neutral and his hands did not fidget.

Pity he hadn't thought to dispel the scent that hung in the air; it was faint, but fresh, ripe, and unmistakable. Tyr felt his eyebrow climb before he managed to get his own expression under control.

Rather than remarking upon it, he only said, "We noticed a magical mishap. Are you all right?"

The flush on Loki's skin deepened. "I am, Father, thank you."

"Every window, in every building in Vingólf,  shattered simultaneously." He nodded to Loki's own window, through which a light breeze was stirring the curtains.

"Ah. Yes." Loki cleared his throat. "I'm very sorry, Father. It was, ah, unintentional."

"Seidr get away from you again?"

"So it would seem, sir."

"Seidmadr Mimir will not return until tomorrow. We're not due to have any poor weather tonight, so you'll be repairing the windows under his supervision."

The boy almost seemed to relax at Tyr's announcement. "Of course, sir."

"I imagine you and he will want to study what happened, so it can be avoided in future? Be prepared to give him a _detailed_ report," said Tyr.

Loki blinked a few times and his bright red flush grew even deeper for a moment, and then began to pale rather quickly. "Yes, Father."

Tyr raised his voice, just a little. "Miss Sigyn?"

The lump in the blankets beside Loki twitched; Tyr heard nothing for a very long moment, while Loki turned red all over again. Finally, the lump shifted again. "Yes, sir?" came the response, in a small, feminine, and _deeply_ mortified voice.

"I trust you are well, young mistress," said the general.

"Yes, sir."

"You're quite certain? No injuries from the broken glass?" he asked, as Loki's eyes grew wide.

"No, sir," squeaked the lump in the blankets.

With a casual nod, Tyr folded his arms and leaned calmly against the door frame, doing his best to look as though he had conversations of this sort every day. "Will you require an escort back to your home later?" It was a perfectly polite question, one which the general asked every time she visited, but the fact he was asking it _here and now_ made Loki's jaw drop with horror.

"No, thank you, sir."

"You're welcome to remain with us for dinner, if you like," said Tyr.

The blankets twitched again, and Tyr thought he might have heard the faintest whimper.

"Or I could send a message to your parents to ask permission for you to stay, if you'd like."

Loki was looking at him with such mortified disbelief, only just beginning to shade into outrage, that his eyes were in danger of falling right out of his head. "Father!"

"That won't be necessary, sir," said the blankets.

"Very good," said Tyr. "I'll leave you to your… studies, then."

"Yes _thank_ you _, Father,"_ Loki said, through gritted teeth.

"You're quite welcome, my son. Have a lovely afternoon, then."

"Yes, sir," came Sigyn's voice.

Tyr turned as if to go, took one step, then paused. "Oh—one last thing."

"What could it possibly _be_ , Father, _pray_."

He looked back over his shoulder, barely managing to keep a straight face and an even tone of voice. "Oh, nothing really," he said. "It is only that I hope the two of you used protectio—"

He was interrupted by Loki's strangled howl as he flopped back on the mattress, yanking the blankets up to cover his face.

Tyr wasn't entirely certain how he managed to make it back to his own chambers before he completely lost his composure, laughing behind closed doors until his eyes watered and his stomach hurt.

* * *

 

The young lady Sigyn turned out to be more than worthy of Loki's affections, given that she did indeed stay for dinner that night—with red cheeks but a dignified manner worthy of Frigga herself—and many other nights thereafter, as the centuries passed. (On that night, however, and for two or three years afterward, Loki sat close to her, holding hands under the table and glaring continually at Tyr, as if daring him to behave in any way other than honorably. Naturally, Tyr never did.)


	6. Mischief, example 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tyr learned many things about his foster son as the years flew by, becoming decades and then centuries, but several things stood out…_
> 
> Four, speaking of mischief, once he got over his fears about Tyr, and possible punishments, and how other people might react to his seidr, mischief was something the boy took to like a duck to water.

 

Loki gave an exasperated sigh as she tripped over the hem of her skirt for the dozenth time in the past hour. "How in all the realms do you manage to walk in these?" she asked, turning to Sigyn and Geirny, who were both far too amused at her stumbling about.

"Part of it is that the shoes you're wearing don't give you the right height for that skirt length," said Geirny. "If you can't find suitable shoes before you go to the palace, I can at least hem the skirt to take it up a bit."

"It also helps if you walk with your legs closer together," said Sigyn, standing. "Like this." She demonstrated, lifting her own dress up to her knees so that Loki could study her footfalls. "It lets you sort of kick the skirt out of the way with each step."

"Aye," said Geirny, "you noble ladies don't stomp about like us peasants do. You _glide_. Which is not too much different from your burglar's walk, now that I think about it," she added. "Try that."

Loki tipped her head for a second, then shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet as Geirny had taught her. It wasn't too different from what Tyr and the other instructors at the training grounds taught for fighting, either. "Oh, that's much better," she said. "Thank you."

Sigyn giggled a little. "I still can't get over how sweet your voice sounds in this form."

"Hmph."

"You're sure you really want to do this?" asked Geirny, watching Loki stride back and forth in her receiving room. "You haven't practiced being a girl very much, that I know of."

"No, I know I'm not ready quite yet," said Loki. "I may have a maiden's form, but I still have the mannerisms of a youth. And I hadn't realized how different the skeletal changes would make… everything. I'll need to practice fighting in this form for at least a month before I go to the palace."

"Well, at least that will be enough time to get you the right shoes," said Geirny. "All this, just to visit with your mother?"

"She is busy training Sif, and has not come to see me in nearly a year," said Loki. "It is only fair that I go visit her."

"As if that is all you have planned," said Sigyn. "I know that look, even on a girl's face, Loki."

"I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about, Miss Sigyn," she replied primly.

"Stick your nose a little higher in the air," said Geirny, "and you'll almost be as snotty as the women courtiers."

"Oh, don't worry," Loki said with a smirk, "I have something planned for my own visit to the palace that should help with that nicely."

"For the court, or for Sif?" asked Sigyn knowingly.

"Both," said Loki, and laughed as they both gave her exasperated looks.

* * *

 

Loki strode into the palace with her head held high; she'd had help with her hair and makeup from Sigyn, was wearing an impeccable gown made just for her by Geirny, and carried the throwing knives she'd received from Master Völund so long ago secreted in various places about her person.

This was going to be fun.

In the queen's chambers, Sif was nowhere in sight, so Loki said quietly, "Hello, Mother," and watched as Frigga's expression changed to one of delight. They embraced as women did, and Frigga kissed her on the cheek.

"You look lovely, darling," she said, "but why have you taken this form?"

"Two reasons, I confess: First, I was given to understand that men were not permitted near shield maidens," said Loki.

"I am your mother, dear, there are exceptions for such things."

"Oh. Well, in any case," said Loki, beginning to smirk a little, "there is still my second reason."

* * *

 

"You… wish me to spar… with her, shieldmother?" asked Sif. She could not keep the doubt from her voice, and it surely must have been visible in her face and every angle of her posture, as she took in the tall-yet-dainty form of the girl in front of her.

"Do you seek to defy me, Sif?" asked Frigga coolly, and Sif immediately shook her head.

"Not at all, shield mother," she said quickly. "It is only… she has no armor."

"None that you can see," corrected the queen. "Or perhaps she has some other means of protecting herself. Come. This is the disadvantage of being the only shield maiden in Asgard, Sif. You cannot fight only against me forever. You will not learn anything other than how to defeat one single opponent."

"Yes, shield mother." She looked over at the girl dubiously; she was dressed like any of the court maidens, here to seek a husband or curry favor with the royal family, and ordinarily Sif would not have spared any of them a second glance. They were beneath the notice of a shield maiden of Asgard. And ordinarily they looked at her with some mix of pity and disgust on their faces that made her want to smack them, if only her shield mother would permit such a thing.

This girl, however, watched her openly, with the hint of a smile playing about the corners of her mouth, as if Sif were the butt of a private joke that she could not wait to share.

Sif decided she wanted to smack this one, too; only this time, it would actually be permitted.

She narrowed her eyes and drew a practice sword from the rack, then closed in cautiously.

"Come, my lady, you're not afraid, are you?" asked the girl.

Sif's eyes narrowed further. "I had no wish to sully your pretty dress."

The girl only laughed. "You're welcome to try."

Sif closed, and swung, but out of nowhere the girl drew a brace of knives, and parried easily. She twisted out of Sif's path with a little swirl of her skirt.

"So you are armed," said Sif with relief. "Good. I had no wish to hurt you, truly."

The girl smiled again, a little more biting this time. "Again: you are welcome to try."

The moved back and forth across the open courtyard, testing and feinting, clashing only to break apart, studying one another's style and getting a feel for how the other moved. Sif found herself tested as she had not expected to be, and smiled a little more honestly now.

Then she stepped in, and the girl ducked where Sif had expected her to parry, shoved her back against Sif's breastplate, and pulled her over to land flat on her back in the clay.

Sif stared up at her with wide eyes. The girl only twisted around to look at the back of her skirt. "Oh dear, did you sully my pretty dress after all?" she asked with a little pout.

"It's barely dusty," growled Sif, climbing to her feet. "I can fix that."

"Oh, I'm sure you can."

They clashed in earnest now, knives against sword, but the other girl dodged like an eel around Sif's more straightforward approach. Once, she nearly landed a blow, and the other girl hooked a foot around her ankle and pulled—a dirty street-fighting tactic that Sif had known, but would not have expected to come from a young courtier like this one.

"You call yourself a shield maiden?" the other girl taunted.

"Not yet," said Sif, and now she _really_ wanted to smack the smug look off the courtier's face.

"Good. Because you have the best instructor in all Asgard, yet you still fight like a boy."

With a growl, Sif launched herself at the girl… who suddenly was not there. She spun, and spotted her opponent, but before Sif could swing, a blade flashed through the air and stung Sif's wrist, making her drop her sword. She shook the pain out and looked for the wound, but there was none, nor a knife in the dirt near her, either. Bewildered, Sif looked up to see the other girl smiling, with a flame dancing across her fingertips.

"Seidr?" she scoffed. "Seidr has no place on the battlefield."

"Clearly you've never met the battle-mages of Alfheim, who are individually worth an entire battalion of mere foot soldiers like you."

Sif was no "mere foot soldier", and she _itched_ to prove it to this little snob. "You are no elf."

"So?"

"So it is cheating!"

The other girl rolled her eyes. "Oh yes, by all means, quote the same whining old men who could not stand the idea of _you_ fighting beside them, because it might make _them_ have to step outside the tiny, narrow confines of the world they choose to inhabit." She tucked her knives away up her sleeves and shook out her skirt. "Ancestors prevent a mere girl from ever doing anything to inconvenience _them_."

"That's not what I meant."

"I don't think you know what you meant," said the other girl. "You still let the old men dominate your way of thinking, even while claiming that you are somehow different from them."

"I am different from them!"

"Not yet," said the girl. "Maybe someday." She turned and gave a graceful curtsey to Sif's shield mother. "Thank you for the opportunity, All-Mother," she said demurely.

Belatedly, Sif remembered her own manners. "May I have the name of my worthy opponent?" she asked.

"Nope," grinned the girl, and Sif gaped. Could she really get away with being this rude in front of the All-Mother herself? "You already know it, anyway."

"We have never met," said Sif.

"Hm. Well, I suppose you know best."

* * *

 

They sparred at least once a year as Sif's training continued, and eventually Sif even counted her as a friend, but she never did learn the girl's true name.


	7. Mischief, example 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is considerably longer than the others in this fic, and feels somewhat less lighthearted to me. I'm still not quite sure it fits the overall style I've been trying to establish. But it's what came out when I sat down and started typing, and I couldn't think of a way to throw these words out and create something different, without having yet another deleted scene. So here you go.

Loki spent a few hours each day in her female form, getting used to it, and had finally worked up the courage to introduce herself to Fandral. For the most part, the other boy had gotten used to the fact that his friend was a shape shifter, so Loki's being female did not seem to faze him… overmuch.

"What's the matter, Fandral?"

"You're… _pretty_ ," he replied. "You'll forgive me if I find this a little unnerving."

"Does this mean you're not going to flirt with me?" Loki batted her eyelashes at her friend as they strolled the market together, Loki's arm in Fandral's as if they were a couple. "I think I'm hurt."

"Gah, stop, this is too weird for me. I can't even punch you on the arm or shove you into that mud puddle."

"You'd better not; it would ruin this dress, and Sigyn is _much_ scarier than I am."

"Heh. I believe it. She keeps _you_ in line." Fandral looked at her from the corner of his eye. "So are you courting her yet?"

"None of your business."

"That means you _are_."

"That _means_ it's none of your business. If you must know, we're still only friends." Loki smoothed her skirt self-consciously. "We haven't… we're both still…"

"Your virtue is still intact?" asked Fandral with a smirk.

"Shut up. I would court her if she'd allow it, though."

"I know. I know that look on your face."

"Oh, yes, because you're such an expert on women."

"I'm an expert on falling in love!"

Loki rolled her eyes. "Because you do it every other night?"

"Honestly? Yes." Fandral sighed. "I can't help it. I tell every maiden they are the most beautiful I've ever met, and it's the perfect truth every time I say it."

"You haven't said it to me," sniffed Loki.

"Well I _would_ if it weren't so _weird_. I still know you as a boy, and I don't like boys."

"According to Seidmadr Mimir, when I'm like this, I'm really not a boy. He says even our thoughts can change a little, although if they have I haven't noticed it yet. But then, he also says Aesir are prudes, and I've _met_ you, so I don't see how that can be the truth."

"Still wishing I could punch you, here," Fandral said cheerfully.

Loki snickered, and dropped the subject. They browsed the market stalls for a while, picking up a doll for Fandral's baby sister, and a bite to eat as they walked.

"Have you thought about what I said?" she asked eventually.

"A little, aye," said Fandral. To Loki's ear, he sounded uncomfortable.

"You really don't have to come with me to the palace, if you don't want," said Loki. "I know you're nervous about it."

"Well, yes, wouldn't you be? A baker's district brat, rubbing elbows with the likes of them…"

"You'll do fine. All you have to do is be my gentlemanly escort. You can even be my brother if you wish, or cousin or something, as long as you fend off any unwanted advances." Loki tipped her head thoughtfully. "Well. Assuming I actually get any advances."

"You will," said Fandral. "They'd have to be blind not to find you desirable and please make me stop talking now."

Loki laughed, a light, sweet sound that turned a few heads and drew smiles their way. "Why, Fandral, do you really think so?"

"I already told you you're pretty. And I've also told you it's completely weird and I wish I could stop thinking about it."

Loki rested her head on Fandral's shoulder for just a moment as they walked. "You say the sweetest things."

"Gah." Loki laughed again, and Fandral shrugged her head off of his shoulder. "When do you think you'll do it?"

"In a month's time, I think," said Loki. "Geirny is making a gown for me so I won't have to borrow Sigyn's anymore, and it will give me more time to practice."

* * *

 

A month later, on a sunny morning, Loki visited with her mother, and reacquainted herself with Sif. In the afternoon, Fandral arrived at the palace, and Loki was waiting for him.

"Stop looking so nervous," she said as they walked. "Come, this is just like the baker's district. If you look as if you belong, people will ignore you."

"Even the guards?"

"They'll watch and remember your face, but as long as nothing happens you'll be fine. But if you _act_ suspicious…"

"Right. I understand." Fandral took a deep breath and pulled his shoulders back, lifting his chin. "I have every right to be in the palace, I'm just as wealthy and snobby as everyone else here, and I can piss in your goblet if I want to and there's nothing you can do about it." He glanced over at Loki as the girl hid a delicate snort behind her hand. "Better?"

"You're practically ready for court," she said. "Now come."

"You never said what we would do until the evening's feast," said Fandral.

"We are visiting nobility from some province no one has ever heard of," said Loki. "I and my cousin, who is my escort to protect my virtue, will explore the palace grounds, and if my cousin wishes to spar a bit to get the nerves out of his system, then perhaps we will go to the training grounds."

"You really think I'm that good," said Fandral. "Enough to get a post with the Einherjar when I'm old enough."

"I do. More importantly, Father does. All you have to do is show it here, where people can see you—"

"It's the people seeing me that I'm worried about!"

"—and the captain of the guard will do the rest. And tonight we can celebrate at the feast, and you'll be too flushed with victory to remember to be nervous in the presence of the All-Father, the queen, and their heir."

Fandral shuddered. "I was doing fine until you reminded me."

Loki laughed at him.

* * *

 

Later that night, Fandral and Loki sat side by side at the feast, far from the high table. This was as it should be, at least according to what Loki had told him; they were supposed to be only minor nobility, with no deeds of renown to their name, and neither of them were of age. Fandral did not mind in the least.

"I still can't believe I managed to defeat three of them," he was saying, still a bit giddy even hours after his last bout. "They must have let me win; that is the only possible explanation."

"Or perhaps you're really that skilled, as I've been telling you for ages now," said Loki. On the sparring grounds, Fandral had been defeated nearly every time, but Loki had warned him to expect that. A young man going up against seasoned warriors could expect to be outmatched and defeated handily; sparring with the Einherjar was meant to be a test of his skill more than a tally of his victories. And they had acted impressed with him, Fandral thought. Unless they really had let him win.

"Hah!" said a man sitting near them, interrupting their conversation. "The encouragement of a maiden." He chuckled some more as he lifted his mug.

"Is there something wrong with such a thing?" asked Loki, turning to face him. Fandral recognized the look on his—her—face, and grew very quiet and observant.

The man smiled indulgently. "It is good that you think so highly of your escort, young lady, but do not pretend you understand what it takes to become a great warrior. Such beauty as yours ought not preoccupy itself with such things."

"My beauty?" said Loki, one eyebrow arching. "Do I take your meaning to be that I may have either a fair countenance, or a keen mind, but not both?"

The man laughed, "Nay, not at all! But a woman's place is nowhere near the battlefield. Your advice might be helpful for the lad if he were picking out what to wear to a wedding, but for fighting?"

It was all Fandral could do not to laugh himself, knowing who Loki really was.

Loki lifted her chin. "And what of the queen, a shield maiden of Vanaheim, and her student, the first shield maiden of Asgard in over three thousand years?"

The man snickered, and buried his face in his mug, muttering something unintelligible.

"Come, sir," said Loki, "I may be a mere maiden, as you say, but even I can speak coherently."

The man stopped smiling. "I _said_ that the queen may play at whatever games might amuse her and help to pass the time, as she pleases. If she wishes to imagine herself a warrior, that's certainly no inconvenience to me."

Loki's expression remained one of neutral good cheer, though Fandral took note of the way her smile seemed to show a few more teeth, and the way her hand under the table clenched into a fist for the merest instant.

"And if she takes to the field and gives you a command?"

The man snorted. "Not likely."

"But if she did."

He shrugged. "She is the queen and I'd be bound to obey her, no matter how foolish the order."

"You assume it would be foolish?" Loki leaned forward as the man began to sputter. "You claim the queen of Asgard is merely an empty-headed housewife, a decoration on the arm of the All-Father?"

"That is not what I said!"

"You said that Frigga All-Mother, an avowed shield maiden of Vanaheim, played at being a warrior, as if it were a mere amusement for her to pass a few lazy hours, and implied that she would be better off standing about and _looking pretty_ rather than overstepping the bounds of her proper place as a woman." Loki sat back and raised her voice, just enough for other people at their table to hear. "I am not certain the All-Father would like to hear you say such things of his queen, sir."

The man's face turned red and he sputtered some more, and the others around him began to glare and murmur among themselves; Loki nudged Fandral, who, recognizing his cue, stood and offered her his arm.

"Are you _trying_ to get me into a holmgang before midnight?" he asked, as the two of them moved to another table.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Loki. "You're too young to answer a call for holmgang." Fandral did his best not to gape at her.

They spent the evening working their way closer and closer to the head table, Fandral mostly staying quiet apart from introductions and a token boast of his skill against the Einherjar, while Loki teased, goaded, cajoled, and steered the various conversations as skillfully as the pilots who worked the skiffs and long ships that plied Asgard's seas. One by one, Loki singled out various nobles of increasingly high rank, men and women alike, and made them look like fools, stumbling over their words or accidentally offering insult… or perhaps the accident was only in being overheard for once. In their wake, Fandral saw and heard more than one conversation that devolved into a shouting match or even the beginnings of a brawl.

Finally, Fandral steered Loki off to one side of the hall where it was slightly quieter. "May I ask what you are doing?" He looked back over his shoulder at the rapidly escalating chaos. "Why are you going after those people?"

"I am going after them, as you put it, because they deserve it," said Loki. "When I still lived here, they were the ones who believed that since Odin appeared to despise me, it was all right for _them_ to mistreat me as they saw fit. They all, every last one of them, believe themselves to be more important than they are, and every last one of them has both a cruel streak and a cowardly one. They would lick Odin's boots _literally_ if they thought it would gain them favor or influence in the court."

"Ugh." Fandral shook his head. "I know people like that. I thought court would be different."

"No," said Loki, "it's the same, only the attacks and backstabbing are usually a little less literal. Once you learn how to spot them, my friend, you'll be able to avoid them just as you do at home."

"Once _I_ learn…" Fandral blinked. "Are you… are you doing this for _me_?"

"I'm showing you whom to avoid and what they look like when their polite masks are dropped, yes," said Loki. She gave him a little half-smile. "Once you are accepted into the Einherjar, you'll live here as I used to. It would be good for you to know ahead of time whom to make an ally and whom to avoid."

Fandral had no idea how to respond to that, and knew he was gaping like a fish, but couldn't seem to stop himself. "You didn't have to… that was…" He shook his head once, hard. "I don't _want_ to become an Einherjar."

Now it was Loki's turn to gape, but only for a moment before she simply looked hurt. "You don't?"

"I thought I did. But I guess I don't, after all."

Loki tipped her head, but said nothing.

"You're my friend," said Fandral simply. "All my friends are in Vingólf. My family is there. Why would I want to come here and be away from all of you?"

Loki looked away, and Fandral actually saw tears in her eyes, and for all that he knew Loki as a boy, suddenly he couldn't stand seeing her upset like this.

"I'm sorry," he said. "This is… you're amazing, I can't believe you'd do something like this for a baker's district brat—"

"Stop calling yourself that," said Loki, blinking rapidly. Her voice was just the slightest bit hoarse. "You are the closest friend I've ever had apart from Sigyn, and you don't care about my rank, and you don't know what that _means_ to me, and I don't want you to care about _your_ supposed rank either, all right?" She sniffed, a little wetly. "I thought I could repay you—"

"By getting me in with the Einherjar," Fandral realized. "Where I'd never have to worry about rank again in my life."

"You could feed your entire family and give your baby sister as many dolls as she ever wanted," said Loki, and that was it. Fandral grabbed her and pulled her into a fierce hug, ignoring the little squeak she made.

"Perhaps I will come here, and try for a position, when I'm older. But not now," he said, pulling back. On an impulse, he kissed Loki on the cheek, and grinned as she actually blushed. "I can't believe you did all this for me."

"Well, I did it for me too, to be fair," she said, smoothing her dress. "And that's not all I did, either."

"Oh?"

Loki smirked, and the previous moment vanished, for there was the wicked look, the invitation to _come and play_ , that Fandral had not been able to resist since the day they'd first met.

"Nothing, really," she said. "I've just been lifting all their purses and switching them with each other, all night long."


	8. "Has anybody seen Loki?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tyr learned many things about his foster son as the years flew by, becoming decades and then centuries, but several things stood out…_
> 
> Five, as a result of most of the above, if anyone ever said aloud, "Has anybody seen Loki?" it was time to grow, perhaps, a little concerned.

"Has anybody seen Loki?"

Tyr heard the words from one of the servants, and began to shake his head as he closed his eyes. Over the years, there had developed a certain light-hearted dread, felt by most of the inhabitants of Vingólf, whenever that sentence was uttered. If someone was asking after Loki's whereabouts, it generally meant either that something momentous had happened, and people were searching for the most likely culprit, or that Loki had been out of sight long enough that it was almost certain that something momentous was on the _verge_ of happening. Either way, if no one had seen Loki in a while, it usually meant it was time to walk softly and watch carefully.

The last time he'd disappeared, it was because he had enchanted a doorway to the great hall that changed the color of everyone's clothing, and hair to match, every time they passed through. The staff and guests at the old dirt pile had looked like a collection of painted spring festival eggs for the entire day, until the spell had worn off at sunset and restored them to their normal colors.

The time before that, Tyr, Hoenir, and nearly everyone else had been the victims of a curse that Loki swore was accidental, but which caused them all to speak in rhyming couplets, in a rhythm that exactly matched that of a poet he'd been studying for the past few months.

"When was the last time you saw him?" asked Tyr, and the servants looked up from their work to glance at one another a bit nervously.

"Not since breakfast, my lord," said one. "He mentioned wishing to travel a little today."

"He was dressed for it, now that you mention it," said another.

Sleipnir was gone from the stables, when Tyr checked; he wasn't sure if that was reassuring or not. Ever since Loki had discovered the horse's ability to travel between the realms, he had been obsessed with learning the trick of it for himself. Mimir had warned him more than once about becoming lost in the Void, or encountering the sorts of creatures that could only be read about in crumbling scrolls, and were almost too fantastic for Tyr to believe in.

Loki had laughed and said that clearly Sleipnir never had any trouble, so as long as he followed in the horse's footsteps everything would be fine.

Mimir had thrown his hands in the air and walked away, and reached for an especially strong bottle of liquor from Tyr's store that night.

"He goes where I cannot follow," he'd said.

"Eventually, all children do," said Tyr.

"But is he ready?"

Tyr had not had an answer, but he'd fostered many children over the centuries; he had smiled a little wistfully, and poured Mimir another drink, and turned the talk to other things.

* * *

 

Loki did not reappear until evening, grinning triumphantly, walking beside Sleipnir as they came up from the lower pasture to the stables. The horse actually seemed to have reached the end of his stamina for once; usually his energy knew no bounds, and he was tireless whenever Loki raced him across Idavoll.

"I did it, Father!" he said with a laugh. "Sleipnir has taught me how to travel between realms."

It still gave Tyr a little wash of contentment whenever the boy called him that. "Has he, now?"

"Here. Look." Loki reached into his vest and pulled out a sprig of tiny blue flowers that grew only on Vanaheim. Tyr knew them well, and recognized them as the flowers that had ended up in Sleipnir's mane, decades ago when he'd first seen the stallion's trick. "I picked these myself."

"You shall have to tell me and Mimir all about it over dinner tonight," said Tyr. "Well done."

Loki fairly glowed at the praise. "Thank you, Father."

* * *

After that, there was no stopping Loki. Before long, he had traveled to every living realm of the Nine, and in some cases come back with the scars to prove it.

* * *

He met the shamans of Alfheim and ended up staying for several weeks, until Mimir went to fetch him back, covered in body paint and giggling uncontrollably from whatever hallucinogen they'd given him. Tyr had been furious until Mimir explained that the drug was considered sacred and was used to enter trance states, and that it was an unheard-of honor to be given leave to even witness their rituals, much less participate in them.

"Until now, I've only ever heard of eight seidmadr who have been given leave to witness such a thing in over ten thousand years of history, and I am one of them. And even I was not invited to participate."

"They gave me a new name," Loki said once he'd sobered up. "But now I don't remember it. Also, please excuse me; I think I'm going to be sick."

* * *

He staggered into the main hall one evening with his clothing smoking, and Tyr caught him as his knees buckled. "Muspelheim," he coughed, "is not the best environment for a frost giant."

"No, I'd imagine not," said Tyr, drawing one of Loki's arms across his shoulders.

"I brought you a present," said the boy, reaching for his vest pocket.

Of course he had. "You may show it to me later," said Tyr with a rueful smile, and led him off to see Lady Runa.

* * *

"I know why it's called Midgard," he said one night. Instead of their usual game of tafl, Loki cleared the board and showed Tyr the map he was building of the paths throughout the Nine Realms, and how many of them passed near or through the mortal realm. He was animated, hands gesturing and eyes shining, crafting little images out of seidr to illustrate his words, and Tyr let him talk long into the night, his heart warming to see his son so passionate and happy.

* * *

"I've seen the dead," said Loki. He had been missing for three days, and they'd found him at last in the lower pasture, hiding in the shelter where Sleipnir had been born. None of the horses would go near him, and crows circled and called frantically from the nearby trees. "I've seen the dead."

"Loki?" Mimir knelt down beside him, where he sat huddled in the straw. "Loki, are you well?" There was no response. "Can you hear me?"

"I've _seen_ the _dead_ ," said Loki. He looked up at Mimir, then at Tyr, eyes wide. "Are you real?"

When Mimir touched him, the boy flinched, staring at the seidmadr's hand as if he'd not expected it to be solid. Between one breath and the next, tears began to trickle down his cheeks, and as Tyr joined the pair, he leaned into their touch as if desperate for it.

"I got lost," he said quietly. "I was trying to find my way to Vanaheim and took a wrong turning somewhere."

"That you should have seen such horrors," said Mimir softly. "I am so sorry I am unable to come with you. To protect you."

"It… it wasn't horrible, not the way you think," said Loki. "It was… it was so _sad_." He wiped the tears from his face. "And beautiful. And serene." He paused for a second, eyes faraway. "If anything was horrible about it, it was that a part of me did not wish to leave."

Loki and Mimir stayed awake that entire night, and Loki was quiet for several days afterward, but the two of them never spoke to Tyr or anyone else of the things they discussed.

* * *

"Has anybody seen Loki?" Tyr asked one evening, and Hoenir paused in his pouring of the drinks for their private dinner.

"I… have not, my lord." He finished pouring and put the bottle back in its cabinet. "Should we be concerned, do you think?"

"He told me he would be traveling today," said Mimir, "but expected to return before sunset." He, Hoenir, and Tyr all looked to the window, where it was growing dark.

Before they could even begin to worry, however, Astrid opened the door to the study, mouth pressed tight shut around a laugh that was trying to break free.

"Loki?" asked Tyr.

She nodded, eyes sparkling. Behind her, they could just hear Loki's muffled voice, sounding _deeply_ annoyed: "I'm _fine_ , I told you, I merely need to bathe and change. No, do _not_ send for the— _no_ , that won't be necessary. I am late for dinner with my _father_ , you are _dismissed_ , _thank_ you."

With a little frown, Tyr stepped out into the corridor to have a look. Loki was stalking toward him with a death glare on his face, which would have been far more intimidating if he hadn't also been, well, a complete mess.

The boy's hair was mussed and his face scratched, though not severely from what Tyr could see. His clothing was torn and covered in mud, broken twigs, and some kind of clear slime that dripped from the entire right side of his body. His arm was completely coated in whatever it was, and his boots made a squelching noise on the stone.

There was a chirring, high-pitched growl, and a lump on Loki's left shoulder moved.

"Loki?"

" _I don't want to talk about it,"_ said his son.

"Are you injured?"

"No." Loki's stride did not falter as he strode past. The lump on his shoulder was revealed to be some sort of small, furry creature that seemed to be gnawing on the shoulder strap of Loki's satchel.

"…Are you aware…?"

" _Yes._ "

"Need help getting it off of you?"

"It has decided it _likes_ me," said Loki, sounding the exact opposite of pleased. He finally stopped at the doorway to his chambers and turned to face Tyr. "Its species is slightly telepathic, and all I've been hearing for the past _three hours_ is about how _good_ I smell and how _warm_ I am and how _damned happy_ it is that I've decided to feed it its favorite treat."

"It likes leather?" asked Tyr.

"Apparently." He made a complicated gesture, and green light flared around his door before it swung open, untouched. "You should see Sleipnir's saddle," he added, before stomping inside and slamming the door behind him.

* * *

As Loki matured, he and Tyr began having dinner in his chambers as often as they had in the general's. His receiving room gained all kinds of curios and trophies from his travels, with even more wonders hidden behind the door to his private study. Whenever Thor visited, Loki would have something new to show him or gift him; he seemed to enjoy bringing back little tokens to share with the people he cared about. Geirny still wore the stone pendant he'd gotten for her on Alfheim that was supposed to help novice hunters to walk more quietly across the grasslands. And Frigga seemed delighted with the delicate silk slippers and book of poetry he'd brought her from one of the many kingdoms on Midgard.

For his part, Tyr wore the cloak clasp, set with fire opals from Muspelheim, whenever possible outside of military uniform. The gems glowed with a light of their own, like embers, and he received many compliments from those who noticed. Loki's glance would sometimes stray to the brooch, and Tyr would watch him try to hide a pleased little smile every time.

* * *

No one had seen Loki all day, and while the servants grew nervous, or began to gossip about some of the boy's prior adventures, Tyr himself tried to decide whether or not he should be worried. He hadn't said anything about planning to travel, and neither Fandral nor Sigyn claimed to have seen him, either.

So Tyr stayed up late that night, going over the business of the manor, until he finally heard the noise of a door opening and closing in the corridor outside.

There was a light on in Loki's chambers, shining out from under the door. Tyr knocked, with a feeling of relief, and the door swung open under his touch.

His foster son stood with his back to the general, peeling a cloak off his shoulders while melting snow dripped to the floor, with a cold fog actually rolling off of him. Tyr frowned, wondering at the sight, until Loki turned a little and Tyr caught a glimpse of blue skin along his ear and cheek.

"Loki?"

The boy startled a little, looking over his shoulder. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Where did you travel today?" Tyr asked, and watched as Loki's skin changed from blue to pale, but his sheepish expression remained the same.

"Jotunheim."

Tyr closed the door, leaning against the door jamb. "You know that is forbidden."

"It is forbidden to Aesir," countered Loki. "Why should it be forbidden to a Jotun to travel his own world?"

"When that Jotun was raised on Asgard and has never seen Jotunheim, and is furthermore a prince of his realm, there is not much wisdom in his traveling to a world where he would make a valuable hostage." Tyr folded his arms. "Never mind violating the spirit of the treaty, if not the letter."

"I was careful, Father," began Loki, but Tyr cut him off.

"If the king had seen you, Loki," he said quietly. "Or if word had reached him of a foreigner in Jotun form."

"I know that, Father, truly." Loki had looked annoyed at first, but now he was all in earnest. "The planet is large. I avoided the capital. The closest I came was the Iron Wood, which is on the same continent as the capital but several weeks' travel away."

"I have heard tales of the Iron Wood; it is not exactly a safe place itself, no matter how removed from the capital it may be."

"I _know_ , Father. Mimir warned me. I read all about the place before I traveled there. I moved in secret, kept myself away from any who might see me."

"Then why go?"

Loki smiled, a little helplessly. "For their library, of course." He glanced away long enough to drape his cloak over the back of a chair. "It is said to have been lost in the war; its location was a carefully guarded secret because of the power of the knowledge contained therein, and those who kept that secret were killed before they could pass it on."

"And did you expect to find it?"

"Well, not _today_ ," Loki began, still impish, before sobering. "Today was about seeing how accurate my information was, and what has changed in the past nine hundred years. And it will be so for many months to come. I had not intended to speak to anyone. And in fact I did avoid nearly everyone, but I met one Jotun… I did not speak to her, nor did I reveal myself. But she was… interesting."

Tyr sighed, and shook his head; Loki's face fell.

"I've disappointed you."

"No," said Tyr. "No, never that. But I worry for you. It is as Mimir said to me once; you go where we cannot follow. And that is as it should be," he added quickly, seeing the defensive stubbornness flicker across the boy's face. "But we care for you, and yes, sometimes we fear for you as well. That is no reflection on your competence, but only on how highly we hold you in our esteem."

Loki thought about that, and Tyr appreciated that he at least took a moment to hear and try to accept what he had said.

"Thank you, Father," he said finally. "I understand. And I'm sorry… and I'm also grateful that you—" He looked away. "You recognize that this isn't just some hobby for me. There is something in me that, that _needs_ this. To travel Yggdrasil as I do. To walk the sky. It is a part of me, down to my bones. And I know I worry you, but that you… that you allow it, means everything to me."

"Well, it isn't as if I could stop you, were we truly to disagree on this matter," said Tyr wryly, seeing the uncertainty that the boy tried to hide. "But no. I do see you, Loki. I do understand what this means to you. To take your freedom away would be to mistreat you badly, and I swore long ago to be the father to you that you deserve. I worry for you, yes, but I would never wish to take this from you, even if it were in my power to do so." He smiled. "Besides, even your mother predicted this; do you remember?"

"I…" Loki's face cleared as he realized. "Her first letter to me."

"My son is none other than Loki Sky Walker, himself," said Tyr. "And I am very proud of him."


	9. A Summary of Insights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyr had learned many things about his foster son as the years flew by, becoming decades and then centuries, but several things had stood out.

Tyr had learned many things about his foster son as the years flew by, becoming decades and then centuries, but several things had stood out:

One, Loki was a ridiculously powerful mage, and incredibly intelligent besides. His power and the careless ease with which he handled it sent Mimir to Tyr's study more than once, looking for strong drink.

Two, Loki was young yet when Tyr first adopted him, and despite his strength and intelligence, he did not always think ahead to the consequences of his actions.

Three, for all his natural talent, Loki nevertheless had little training in how to control and wield all that seidr, which meant that the results of his spells and workings could sometimes be… unpredictable. And that was not even factoring in the times when he used it deliberately, for some mischief or other.

Four, speaking of mischief, once he got over his fears about Tyr, and possible punishments, and how other people might react to his seidr, mischief was something the boy took to like a duck to water.

Five, as a result of most of the above, if anyone ever said aloud, "Has anybody seen Loki?" it was time to grow, perhaps, a little concerned.

* * *

Six.

Loki, having been mistreated by those who called themselves his family, having never quite fit in for so much of his childhood, did not give away his trust readily. But once that trust was given, his loyalty was absolute.

"What do you _mean,_ my father is missing?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mua-hahaha. :)
> 
>  
> 
> (I hope to start the next fic in the series in a couple of weeks at the most.)  
> (Thank you so much for reading, and your kind words.)
> 
> If you want to leave extra kudos, you're welcome to stop by [my Tumblr blog](http://peaceheather.tumblr.com) and say hello.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Moments - Deleted and Extended Scenes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7034704) by [PeaceHeather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeaceHeather/pseuds/PeaceHeather)




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